After
by Sasciago24
Summary: A twist on Ragnarok... from a very different point of view. I tagged Loki because it does sort of revolve around him. Rated teen for safety and a bit of gore. Let me know what you think. So far i'm doing quite a few one shots. hoping to eventually do more.


His peculiar eyes drank in the scene, all of them, Aesir, Jotun, Einheriar, his brothers, his sister, his family all dead. Nothing… no-one remained but the flaming giant Surt. What was the fool waiting for, if this was Ragnarok, then he, the mighty Surt, would destroy what was left with his cleansing fire, instead the giant seemed dumbfounded. He could've yelled at Surt, let it be done! Now that adrenaline and bloodlust were fading, he was aware of the dull ache deep within his chest, he was alone, he had no-one, nothing and no-one! The scream rumbled from deep within his chest and echoed across Vigrid. Surt gave him a glance and continued to look at his flaming sword in desolation. If only he would just end it already.

Another scream tore itself from him; there had been replies during the battle, "little cousins" screaming in fear and pain. Some put out of their misery, others died a lingering death. They had been doomed from the second they touched the beach, but the kept attacking, ploughing forward, driven by fear and madness.

Unbidden he found himself at the body of the All-father surrounded by a stinking mass of intestines. Geri and Freki had died at his side, Huginn and Munnin too, wings outstretched and wet with stomach secretions either side of the all fathers head as if they prepared to alight on his shoulders like usual. He would cry; if tears had been part of this form, despite the initial concern, the All-father had never been anything but generous to him. Despite the stench he lowered his head to that of Odin. It was a last goodbye, breaths exploding around the wise face, his version of a sob, almost a prayer for his return. He knew it would be futile. Odin had returned from death once, but this was Ragnarok, from this there was no return. With a final soft breath he turned away. There was so much death, and for what?

Then he found the fool who had brought Ragnarok upon them, for once, there was no smile on that face, mischievous, wicked or otherwise, there was nothing and for once he gave into the instincts that we're part of this body, a primal anger stretched over every fibre and nerve in his great body and he began to rain blows over the tricksters already battered body. Every time he rose, a new memory, a new emotion boiled over ready to be unleashed upon Loki's body, but with each dull thud, he was reminded of the finality that he too would not return. With a strained roar he rose to his full height, aiming for the face beneath the horned helm, savage fury whipping along his back, through his muscles and as he landed, his four hooves sank into the sand on either side of his mother's head. The stallion's roar that escaped him washed over the tricksters face, full of anger and sorrow.

Fool, you had a choice and you chose wrong! Why!? A frustrated squeal escaped him. A sound he hadn't really made since his colt days. He was actually surprised by himself, and then waves of grief washed over him. What had his mother been thinking? Loki had grown up as an outsider, despite efforts to prove himself, the other gods hated and mistrusted him and it had driven him, at first he longed to prove himself equal, worthy and then his mind snapped and he sought to bring about their destruction. Sleipnir knew this, because his mother often turned to him when there was no-one else. As a horse Sleipnir couldn't offer words of support, but he could always wrapped his neck around his mother with snuffling warm breaths always wandering if now was the time… but instead, fear stayed him and now he would never have the chance to show his mother how alike they really were.

The other gods had helped forge a monster, but Loki had always done what he wanted. He shouldn't have made the spear for Hod, he should've wept for Balder like the rest of them, he had all the choices, and he had chosen to bring Ragnarok on them all. For the love of Asgard! If a horse knew that the Norns weren't always right how could Loki not! His left forefeet pawed the blood-soaked sand near his beloved mothers head in frustration. Or no... maybe if Loki had someone who knew his feelings to talk to, to tell him that it was all about choices, that he didn't need to bring about Ragnarok, but he hadn't had the courage to do it then, worried about the reaction, worried his mother would shun him, but he had to do it now. Grant his mother the funeral he deserved.

Sleipnir steeled himself, it had been years since he had done this, millennia in fact, but the sight of his mother's broken body –admittedly, broken by him- gave him the resolve to make the change. He commanded the magic to fill him and gritted his teeth when it took effect. All colts learnt from their dams, and this was no different, yet instinct had made him do this in the safety of shadows, where no-one was looking. There was still no-one to see as the saddle on his back became too small, the bridle on his head slipping onto the new shoulders. He lifted it off, with strong hands, his mother's hands and finally, a man stepped out of the trappings of a saddle.

Sleipnir had always felt somewhat self-conscious as a man, the first time he had spied his form in a looking glass he had spooked badly, almost reverting back to his horse form. When he looked again, it wasn't his mother standing there, it was him.

He looked very much like his mother, slim and lithe, but powerful. Of course, his mother was every bit like him when he was a horse. Only he had the normal number of legs and was more finely made. Sleipnir's sire Svadilfari had apparently been a hulking muscled brute. Both of them had been the most exotic horses in the nine realms. They were long, lean elegant and proud. As different to the Asgardian war horses as silk is to chainmail, but they were by no means weaker. Loki and Sleipnir had been narrow through the breast, long in the back and loins. Their withers were high, their shoulders clean and free, the muscles that covered these areas we're refined and without excess. Their legs were as long and slender as a cats, and as a colt, Sleipnir seemed to be suspended on a multitude of stalks, but despite the slenderness, their legs were study and strong. Their heads were set on regally high, slim necks and the heads themselves were proud, arrogant and brutally beautiful. Their most striking feature was their shimmering, metallic coats.

As a man, again Sleipnir looked like his mother: tall, slender, lithe, handsome, only Sleipnir had some of the bulk his sire had bestowed on him. Bigger muscles and a greater height. Thankfully as a man the extra limbs vanished, otherwise he would've probably looked like one of the deities some of the Midgardian's worshipped. He had his mother's jet black hair, but not his green eyes. By some magic his eyes happened to be both blue and brown. A few of the horses at the stables had had mismatched eyes, a fair few blue eyes, the odd few had green eyes, even fewer had amber eyes. He recalled twenty with one eye that was both blue and brown, but none with both eyes being two colours. As a man he was the only one. No one had ever seen it though. No one would.

Naglfar wasn't far from where his mother's body lay; scooping the once proud god up into his arms he carried him to the hideous ship. He snorted at it as he would have as a horse.

"I'm sorry mother, I'm sorry I could never speak to you, let you know that there was a way to escape the fate that had been bestowed on you. I should have. Whether you would've listened of course is another matter, but in my dreams this wouldn't needed to have happened. If you were here you'd see that Surt hasn't exploded and washed this world and the others clean with his flames. The oaf seems quite dumbfounded. I'm sorry mother, for what they did to you, what they turned you into and what you let yourself become. You little fool. This, at least, is one thing I can do for you."

Sleipnir laid Loki onto the deck of Naglfar with the same amount of love and care his man mother had ever shown him. Loki had seemed every bit the God when he breached the ship on the shores of Vigrid, but now he seemed tiny. Naglfar was immense, surely one of the largest ships in all the nine realms, even Baldur's ship had not seemed so vast. There were no treasures to lay around the god, but there were weapons aplenty. Swords, shields, spears, crossbows they lined Naglfar before long, but Sleipnir still felt gnawing guilt that his father would have no treasures to take with him to the next world, he scanned the desolate beach again when it hit him.

Loki had never been allowed to spend as much time as he would've liked with his children, and though he never let it show, he loved each one of them. As monstrous as they had all been. Fenrir had been cast out, bound and imprisoned much like Loki himself, but not without taking the hand of Tyr. Jormungandr was likewise banished to Midgard and Hel became ruler of the dead. And which father didn't love his daughter? Sleipnir leapt from Naglfar once more running towards his sister. The goddess of death dead, only now there was no one left for her to take in. no one left but Sleipnir.

His sister was feather light as he carried what was left of her to Loki's side. He hardly knew her. Foul and fair all at once, had it not been for her black half, she would've been more beautiful than Freya. Sleipnir sighed heavy, fate was a cruel force. Had Loki's children been born beautiful and normal, maybe then the other gods would give him the respect he deserved. Sleipnir snorted, no, not even that. Nari and Vali were proof of that. The last link of his mother's mind had probably snapped when the entrails of his own son bound him to those rocks. The gods were sadistic evil bastards; they lived to see Loki destroyed. Well, they had their wish. He sighed heavily once more as he laid his half-sister alongside her father.

Sleipnir gazed out at his next mission. Hel had been the easy part. Jormungandr and Fenrir were another story. They would fit, if somewhat just barely, but to get them there he might need to become a horse again and he did not relish the thought of dragging his half-brothers. It was just too disrespectful, but they were mothers' treasures, his greatest treasures and they were getting a proper, if not poorly attended funeral. I scanned Vigrid for some form of rope before jogging slowly up to my reptile brother.

Jormungandr was as exotic as I had been, especially for a serpent. He was an endless column of smooth scales, shimmering in the light that Surt was giving off. Thor had battered and broken him, but his own body lay not far away. Ragnarok was truly a waste, a great waste. They could've lived for many millennia beyond this, but no. they had all listened to those damned woman and doomed them all. Silently cursing the Norns, Sleipnir fixed the ropes around Jormungandr's massive head, and then himself. To his human form they were loose, but when he transformed they fit his horse barrel and chest well, he bared his teeth and laid his ears flat as he began to pull his massive brother, ignoring the bite of the ropes as he pulled him towards Naglfar. For mother… for mother… for mother…

Fenrir was worse. There two parts to him, not counting the pile of intestines that encased Odin, but once more Sleipnir did his duty, laying his brother in the remaining space of Naglfar, he was covered in blood, but for his mother and for his family, it had been worth it. Turning once more into a horse he reared up to push Naglfar back into the sea. It was like fighting another stallion, his equal, if he could topple him, he would win, he bunched his legs once more snorting, as the boat budged fractionally, fingernails cutting slightly into the fine skin at his breast. The two fore hind legs fell forward. Naglfar was moving, slowly, but he was making progress!

Sweat began to stain his body, bit by bit his hooves sank deeper into the ocean. The water covered his hocks, his quarters and soon he was swimming. He headed back to shore. In a few bounds he found what he had been seeking; man once more to shoot a flaming arrow onto the deck of Naglfar. The arrow flew true, and his family, received the funeral they deserved, he snorted almost horse like as the scent of Naglfar reached him. Burning fingernails was by no means pleasant.

Somewhere to the right of his limited vision he saw another ship catch alight. Had he been a horse he would've seen it sooner, now he had to turn his head and see.

The gods were begin granted the same rights, albeit on the Jotun's ship and by non-other than Vidar. Had Sleipnir bore more love for his wolf brother, he may have stormed Vidar and killed him, instead he watched the silent god for a few moments before strolling across Vigrid to meet him. They watched the two ships approach Surt. Surprisingly it was Vidar who spoke first.

"We should go Surt's time approaches."

Sleipnir gazed at his with his unusual eyes. The Norns right again? Where were those crones anyway?

"..And it's good to see you Sleipnir, but if I may be so bold, your other form might be more to our favour."

The god smiled sadly as Sleipnir arched an eyebrow at him, in that moment Sleipnir looked every inch like his mother. But the eight legged horse stood alongside Vidar, still watching the two ships, Surt had taken notice of them now.

"They all deserve a proper funeral, but Surt will see to that."

As the ships passed Surt, the fire giant drew his sword and roared. At which time Vidar vaulted onto Sleipnir's back. The stallion wheeled and galloped in the direction that Vidar had indicated. He ran for his life, for Vidar's life, for the future of the world to come. Surt's flames were about to rise at last, Sleipnir pricked his ears and resisted the urge to buck and gathering his eight legs for speed he had never unleashed, he flew.


End file.
